


Of Manors and Drawing Rooms

by SeriousScribble



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Female Harry, Gen, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Slytherin Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 13:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeriousScribble/pseuds/SeriousScribble
Summary: Victoria enters Malfoy Manor and discovers a new world within. And whether she will be a part of it one day or not, she cannot deny it is fascinating.-Tangent on Victoria Potter, with my take on Malfoy Manor; a slice-of-life about protocol and status, perception and reality; determining who you are, and who you want to be.





	Of Manors and Drawing Rooms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taure/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Victoria Potter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13795605) by [Taure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taure/pseuds/Taure). 

> AU, but you probably guessed that.

**Of Manors and Drawing Rooms**

“Will Miss be wanting to breakfast tomorrow with the house?”

Victoria froze. In a flash, she realised the coming weeks would be nightmare to navigate. The house-elf was staring at her from his (Victoria presumed) round green eyes, as clearly part of an entirely different social circle than she knew to navigate as the rest of Malfoy Manor and its inhabitants.

What was expected? What was proper? She had no idea, and that was bad. Her mind went through all possible reactions, branching into different outcomes simultaneously – agree so as not to inconvenience her hosts with an extra meal, decline so as not to impose herself on Draco’s family meal, invent an excuse to put off the decision –

It took but a fraction of a second before Mrs Malfoy inserted herself in the conversation, relieving Victoria of her predicament.

“She is our guest, so of course she will join us, it does not warrant asking. We will have breakfast at nine, as I told you, so there is ample rest for everyone.” And with a slightly frowning look, she added, “Stop asking questions, and see that her luggage is carried to her rooms.”

Victoria sent a quick, grateful smile at her hostess. Draco was chatting with his father and only just turning around, the graceful tact of Mrs Malfoy saving Victoria the embarrassment. So quick it had been, so seamless, that even an avid observer would hardly have noticed. And yet, there was something – a long, thoughtful look of her hostess, as Victoria walked up the stairs.

~*~

When she reached her room, Victoria froze for the second time that evening. Behind the dark, carved door with the cliché snake-handle was a huge bedroom. Decorated in gold and green, with polished hardwood floor, damask-covered walls, mahogany furniture – a wardrobe, a vanity, a chaise-lounge, a table with stationary, and of course, the huge canopy bed on the far wall, in-between two windows, whose heavy green drapes were drawn. The one thing that convinced her she was right was her trunk on a rug in the middle of the room.

Peacocks, snake doorhandles – the Malfoys might sometimes be ridiculously gaudy, but _this_ was awesome. With a giggle, she kicked off her shoes and jumped onto the bed, almost feeling like she was floating on a cloud as the cushioning charm engulfed her like a soft blanket. She comfortably fitted on it cross-wise. Her fingers traced the carved floral patterns of the huge headboard that fitted the printings on the wallcovering, twines of some sort winding their way up, and branching and branching out. The ceiling high above her head was framed with a golden edging and featured a chandelier in the centre of the room.

She thought it was beautiful.

It was almost an effort to rise from this outrageously comfortable bed, but there was more to see. A fire was burning in the fireplace. On the marble mantelpiece, she spotted a couple of books. _The Wishtree_, _Guinevere’s dream_, _Le Cœur d’une Sorcière_ … they appeared to be wizarding novels. Of the romantic kind, if the covers were any indication, she thought with a giggle, and resolved to at least have a peek. Susan had talked about them enough, but she was still dubious.

A door next to the very elaborate vanity, including a huge, silver-framed mirror, lead into her very own bath. There was a lot of marble, and a huge tub with seven different taps in varying sizes, and she had to fight the sudden urge to try out all of them right now. She only freshened herself up, quickly, before leaving her rooms again for a brief, late dinner. Next to the door, on a sideboard, were the final details she noticed: A vase that held, amazingly enough, a bouquet of fresh flowers. In the middle of winter. Magic was _awesome_.

~*~

It was dark when she woke up the next day. The fire had burned down; the air in the room was cool, but not cold. The mantelpiece clock softly chimed five times, telling the time. Far away, down, in the house, she heard shutters move and sudden clanging of pans. The house-elves were already busy, but everyone else was asleep. Comfortably, she snuggled back into the warm duvet and fell asleep again.

When she woke the next time, the fire in the fireplace was crackling merrily. It was past eight o’clock. Time to get ready for breakfast.

As soon as had thought this and started to get out of bed, wearing nothing but her underwear, there was a _pop_. A house-elf stood in the room, but not the one from yesterday.

“Eek!” she shouted and pulled the cover back up.

Luckily, it took no notice of her outburst, just starting to place over her the bed-tray it had been carrying. It contained tea and toast.

“When Miss be done, bath be ready,” it squeaked. “Does Miss require further assistance?”

The thought of having the house-elf bath her was enough to make her choke on the first sip of tea. She wasn’t even sure a full bath was needed, even if she wanted to try the different taps, but she was definitely sure she did _not_ want to have this creature around for it.

“No, no that’s very fine.”

She hoped she didn’t sound as relieved as she felt when it nodded and disappeared. Victoria nibbled thoughtfully on her toast, and considered how to organise her morning. Bath first, then making herself presentable, sure. But what to wear? Something formal or was going casual fine?

Her robes were laid out for her when she returned from the bathroom. It was just her quality, but simple inner robe, and this spared her from having to decide which one to wear. Apparently, for the morning, something casual was appropriate. She slipped inside and faced the next problem, directly in front of her on the vanity. Eyeing the assortment of brushes, combs, pins, needles, bottles and tins almost desperately, she decided to forgo all of them and cheat as usual. She concentrated, felt her hair straighten and fall smoothly down her back, as though freshly brushed, before she had it part, turn into two tight Dutch braids, and wiggle into a crown. There, done.

Satisfied, she stared into the mirror.

The mirror stared back at her.

“Lovely, dear. But of course, you would expect nothing else from a Metamorphmagus.”

_What?!_

Her mirror image winked, then turned around, to show her herself from behind. It was the first time Victoria had that perspective and she was so surprised that she even was distracted from the talking mirror. She stared at a proud young woman, standing straight, in a simple, but perfectly-fitting robe, a tender curve from shoulder to head, revealing a delicate neck with an expanse of soft, creamy skin, and finally fine black hair, artfully coiled in a crown braid. There was only one word for it.

“I look _beautiful_!”

The moment she realised she had said that out loud she clapped her hand to her mouth and flushed in embarrassment.

The mirror turned back to her with a giggle that sounded eerily like her own, while doing some extra poses such as tilting her head and looking down demurely, but casting glances through her eyelashes.

“Nothing wrong with a bit of vanity, child. Don’t let it turn into off-putting arrogance, keep yourself pure, and you will have your fair share of suitors in no time.”

Victoria flushed even harder. That was decidedly _not_ what she wanted to hear from her … mirror. Anyway, something else was more important.

“You will keep all of this a secret, I hope?”

“Well, of course!” The mirror sounded almost offended. “A Witch’s Mirror is her most trusted companion, not a tattle-tale acquaintance. And I am you, so however _would_ I even tell if you don’t?”

That sounded sensible. Satisfied, Victoria turned away, quickly making her bed. Five to nine she went downstairs, into the dining room.

Only Mrs Malfoy was already there, biding her a good morning. Her first look afterwards went to Victoria’s hair, decidedly approving.

“Lovely work, dear. Tilly’s handicraft? I will have to express my gratitude.”

Victoria shook her head. “I did it myself. Tilly offered, but I always do it myself.”

“_Marvellous_ work. Though, just between us –” she winked at Victoria, as now Draco and Mr Malfoy arrived “– having her brush your hair for half an hour feels divine. You have to spent all the time allowed to us for our toilet _somehow_, after all.”

Breakfast was a fairly quiet affair, as far as Mr Malfoy was concerned: He vanished behind the Daily Prophet nearly as soon as he had taken his seat, the paper already lying in wait for him, on a silver tray next to his plate. Mrs Malfoy and Draco were talking, and Victoria joined in, mostly about the first months of school.

Suddenly, Mrs Malfoy noticed that he was eating rather quickly. A frown moved onto her beautiful face like a cloud across a clear sky.

“I do wish you wouldn’t gobble like that, Draco. Whatever’s the matter?”

Draco swallowed even faster and said: “Victoria and I wanted to see the Abraxans today, mother, I told you.”

Again, Victoria caught a somewhat thoughtful look. Then, Mrs Malfoy shook her head fractionally.

“No, I shall require Victoria’s assistance for a while after breakfast, provided this is agreeable to you?”

The last was directed at her, not Draco.

Victoria knew an order when she heard one. She swallowed a bit of her second pear – they were _deliciously_ soft and juicy – and nodded.

“But, mother –”

“You have all afternoon, Draco. I only will require a quarter of an hour of her time then.”

If anything, the words made him appear even more alarmed, for reasons not quite clear to Victoria.

“I don’t think that’s a good –”

There was a rustle as Mr Malfoy lowered the _Daily Prophet_ and appeared from behind the paper.

“You heard your mother. If you must sulk, sulk quietly.”

And sulk was indeed what Draco did, which amused Victoria and made her feel sorry at the same time. Apparently, at home, he didn’t nearly get his way as often as he did in school, which was rather funny. But it was clear he had been looking forward to showing her the winged horses they had talked about, and truthfully, she wasn’t sure she was excited to spend a long amount of time next to the picture of refined elegance that was Mrs Malfoy, which definitely cast Victoria as wanting, her host’s earlier assessment of herself notwithstanding. There was nothing for it, however, and so, after breakfast, everyone rose and left, while the two of them stayed behind.

When the house-elf appeared and cleared off plates and goblets and silverware, floating them out of the room, Mrs Malfoy beckoned her.

“Come, Victoria.”

They followed the house-elf across the manor, past some open doors that allowed her to catch glimpses at a library and a drawing room, including a rather large family tree, stitched onto a huge tapestry that reached from floor to ceiling. On the wall of the corridor hung portraits of past Malfoys.

After they passed the entrance hall, the corridors became quite narrow and dark. Finally, it ended at rough stone stairs, leading down. The door at the bottom opened, and they had finally reached the kitchens, on the other end up the house. The walk had taken almost five minutes.

The kitchens were windowless, but fairly large; illumed by bright torches and definitely looking old-fashioned, from the cast iron appliances such as the massive hearth, in which a fire was flickering, to the cupboards and plate holders and coppery saucepans that all looked as if everything had been purchased a century ago. But of course, magic had kept it in good nick, and magic made cooking easy, so what need was there for new things or different ways?

The look of the older witch next to Victoria swept through the room.

“Tilly! Harky! Dobby!” she called.

Victoria stared. _Three_ house-elves?

Indeed there appeared three of the creatures immediately. Tilly, who had carried out the breakfast things and delivered her the tray this morning, Harky, who had received them at the door when they had arrived yesterday, and Dobby, who she so far had hadn’t seen. While Tilly wore an apron and Harky some sort of old shirt, he wore what looked like a pillowcase. And his left hand was bandaged. When he spotted Victoria, he gasped and bowed.

Mrs Malfoy frowned. “Behave yourself.” Then she turned to Tilly. “The kitchens are tidied up and cleaned?” Tilly nodded. “Tilly will have washed up immediately.”

From there, she went down a list she apparently knew by heart, and Victoria couldn’t help but slightly admire the sure, calm way she addressed and dealt with the matters one by one. A supply of fuel next to each fireplace – fresh ink in all inkstands – candles aplenty – no stale food in the pantry. From the inspection there, finally, followed the peculiarities of tonight’s dinner. Tilly was in charge here as well, going so far as to suggest most of it, which Mrs Malfoy mostly agreed to, and only changed the dessert, after a quick glance at Victoria. _However_ did she know about treacle tart?

After Tilly, it was Harky’s turn, who seemed responsible for the garden with the peacocks and the Abraxans, and finally, Dobby’s. And Mrs Malfoys voice changed immediately.

“The ceiling wants dusting, the lamps want trimming, the mantelpiece in the drawing room is sooty and I discovered a boggart in the hall drawer.” There was an audible gasp from Tilly. The silence in the kitchen was profound. “A boggart,” repeated Mrs Malfoy softly. “_In my house._ Have we become a hovel? A filthy dwelling of miscreant squibs unable to care for their ancestor’s legacy?”

Mrs Malfoy exuded an atmosphere of ice. Nothing was left of the previous, playful geniality. Victoria decided on the spot that she never wanted to get on that side of her hostess if she could help it. Tilly stared at Dobby, horrified, who was shaking.

“Whatever do you have to say for yourself?”

“Dobby is very sorry, Mistress. Dobby will boil his hands in punishment.”

If possible, the air around the older witch became even colder.

“Get on with it, then.”

Mrs Malfoy stood silently, watching the now unfolding gruesome ordeal, as the creature dunked his hands – the injured one included – into a pot of hot water on the oven, moaning in pain as it did, while the water hissed and sputtered.

Victoria watched as well, frozen in horrible fascination, feeling her breakfast churning in her stomach, but unable to look away. The creature was literally boiling its own flesh.

When Dobby started to scream, there was a single word.

“Enough.”

The hands emerged, red and raw.

“Treat him, Tilly.”

The other house-elf started wrapping and re-wrapping his hands with bandage non too gently, while Mrs Malfoy addressed the injured elf.

“You will have done all the things I just listed before luncheon. Tilly, you are to tell me if _you_ think the result satisfactory.”

That seemed rather a lot in a very short amount of time for a very injured house-elf to Victoria, but she said nothing.

“Oh, and when Dagworth’s elf comes and delivers the groceries, do remember to arrange for more fruit. We have a healthy eater.”

The last was said with a wink in Victoria’s direction, the icy demeanour gone as quickly as it had appeared. Then, she turned around and left the kitchen, Victoria in her wake.

Outside, Victoria breathed in deeply the cold air, glad to escape the stuffy, oppressive kitchen where a moaning and shuddering – no, time to think of other things.

On the way up, climbing the stairs, the older witch shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of this elf. One might think it delights in punishing itself. Much rather than a constantly injured elf, I would have adequately dusted rooms. It’s maddening.”

Victoria nodded, and carefully kept her thoughts hidden. It was not her place to judge – and, for that matter, she wasn’t even sure she had an opinion yet. Tilly and Harky seemed well enough, and for that matter, seemed to _like_ working here well enough. She could swear she’d even heard Tilly humming, as she started on the dishes, just before they closed the kitchen door.

Instead, she asked: “Where are we going?”

They had somehow taken a turn, and were going up another flight of stairs, which were no comparison to the grand staircase of the entrance hall.

Mrs Malfoy smiled. “To your rooms, Victoria. I thought we might have a look at your robes and see if any of them want repairing; I can do that together with Draco’s. Magic knows he has a talent for tearing even the best charms. Afterwards, I shall pick some fresh flowers, you can help me writing a few letters; and if you care to, practice your charmwork till luncheon. You could start on a ceremonial belt for dressrobes, it would make for a nice Yule gift.”

It was then Victoria realised what was going on. Aside from dealing with Dobby and arranging for dinner, there hardly had been need to go over all the things in as much detail. Without ever saying a direct word that could be interpreted as pointing our her deficiencies, Mrs Malfoy was guiding her through a typical day of a witch of certain status.

This was what her hostess’ life was like, Victoria presumed, as she helped sorting Mrs Malfoy through her own, not too extensive wardrobe, and later followed her into the wintry gardens, where indeed, under the cover of a clever combination of warming charms and weather spells, many beautiful flowers grew – and that of Pansy’s mother, and many other Slytherins. Caring for a large household, including staff, seeing to domestic matters; and otherwise, days filled with leisure, spent making calls or doing charmwork, reading books or writing letters, such as Mrs Malfoy was doing currently, showing her how to accept or decline invitations for dinner, of which the Malfoy’s seemed to receive rather a lot.

Pansy, one day, would do exactly this, perhaps Daphne, too. Was it expected of Victoria as well? She disliked having to fit expectations, never having cared much about anyone’s. And yet, Mrs Malfoy could not have found a more willing pupil, as she now praised Victoria’s attentiveness, before she was dismissed from this morning’s routine, though it remained a point of contention that Mrs Malfoy would have been as impressed in knowledge of the thoughts on the girl’s mind, which followed the idea that one’s position is much improved by breaking rules intentionally, rather than from ignorance.

So Victoria was unsure, at last, whether such a role was hers, but keen to acquire an idea of how it was performed, deeming it a very necessary piece of knowledge, and as such was rather grateful.–

~*~

After luncheon, Victoria returned to her rooms to find her best set of inner and outer robe laid out for her, freshly washed and charmed, as Mrs Malfoy had promised. Apparently, one changed into more formal clothes for the rest of the day. Well, at least it wasn’t her dress robe. Then again, maybe that was for dinner.

The first seven buttons of the openeable outer robe were undone, and she left it at that, feeling that it created a rather nice balance. She’d always liked seven. Mere moments after she was done, there was a _pop_, and Tilly appeared. After a critical look – since when could house-elves look critical? – she nodded.

“Mistress has asked Tilly to ask Miss if Miss would like to come downstairs into the drawing room. Tilly will bring Miss.”

Seeing not much choice – again – Victoria shrugged. “Lead the way.”

~*~

Mrs Malfoy received her by the door, putting a hand on her arm. Facing the room, which was by no means as empty as Victoria had expected, she declared: “Allow me to introduce to you my young friend, Miss Victoria Potter. She stays with us for the Yule break.”

And belatedly, in hindsight, Victoria understood Draco’s apprehension this morning.

To her were pointed out the names of the three guests. There was Mrs Parkinson, Pansy’s mother, and she immediately saw the likeness. Not so much in the appearance, but the manner, the same inherent superior attitude, the certainty of being worth more than the average witch. Victoria was regarded with a short and frosty smile. Of roughly the same age was Mrs Whitehorn, of marriage to Nimbus Racing Broom Company-owner fame, and quite a bit older was Madam Marchbanks, who served as an elder in the Wizengamot.

Victoria was led into the room, quite into the centre of it, and rather felt like an object at an exhibition. Was she supposed to smile? Nod? Curtsey?

She decided to forgo all of it. She wasn’t one for being servile and she didn’t want to start now. She could stand on her own. Nevertheless, there was apprehension, tension, nervousness, all of which combined inadvertently to make her posture just a little straighter, carry her head a little higher; as she moved through the room with as much grace as she could muster, and took a seat on one of the chairs, carefully smoothing her robes.

The reactions varied. There was the ghost of a smile on Mrs Malfoy’s face at her side, pursed lips at Mrs Parkinson’s, drawn eyebrows at Madam Marchbanks’, and indifference at Mrs Whitehorn’s.

Madam Marchbanks was the first to speak.

“Well! I was not quite sure if Narcissa was joking. I knew your parents, of course; it’s a wonder to meet you here, now.”

“In fact, it seems she feels perfectly at home,” remarked Mrs Parkinson, rather acidly.

“Does this show, then, that one should always endeavour to treat everyone for himself, and not for his pedigree?” Mrs Malfoy asked with a smile.

Madam Marchbanks appeared vexed.

“I dare say it does, and people would do well to remember it.”

And so they were off. Victoria groaned mentally, realising exactly what the next minutes would be like. Mrs Parkinson already appeared very much minded to object to Madam Marchbanks, and Mrs Malfoy made no attempt to intervene, instead regarding Victoria attentively, clearly giving her leave to direct the situation as she wanted.

Not intending to spend the rest of the time fighting the wizarding world’s political battles, and considering that such a topic must certainly be quite extraordinary for a courtesy call, which clearly this was, and _on top_ of it all trying not to embarrass her host with bad manners, even if the others appeared to have no such qualms, it seemed to Victoria that it was high time to steer the conversation into a more agreeable direction. Luckily, there had been a ready opening.

“I’d certainly like to hear a story from my parents, if you knew one, Madam Marchbanks.”

Her look softened, and for the next minutes, they were on safe ground, as Hogwarts stories were regaled and exchanged. Victoria was able to offer one of her experiences with the Giant Squid and its far too many arms, which was entertaining enough. From there, it led to the topic of Charms, on which Madam Marchbanks was an expert, and to the final essays of Adalbert Waffling, which Mrs Malfoy brought up, showing her collection of originals, in a box on a shelf.

It worked until the conversation again took an interest in her, and Mrs Whitehorn, quite insensitively, stumbled over the topic of Voldemort. Victoria had enquired about the company – rather elegantly, she thought (“I do like flying well enough, but the school brooms are quite underwhelming, I am comparing brooms to get one for myself, presently”), but Mrs Whitehorn had no interest in business whatever, and in broomsticks even less, and declined the opening, instead pointing out: “We talked about Waffling – did anyone ever hear how he came to his end? It was a flying accident, they say, but there were always rumours …”

“Just another one of You-Know-Who’s victims,” said Madam Marchbanks. “You-Know-Who promoted theories of Quince’s circles regarding the origin of wizards, and Waffling strictly disagreed. Which makes standing in his shadow a rather desolate affair.”

Victoria did not feel like discussing how large the shadow might be that was perceived to be cast on her as quite evidently, Mrs Malfoy and Mrs Parkinson agreed with whatever Quince, the Voldemort darling, had posited.

“Disagreements among scholars should stay there,” she tried. Mrs Parkinson would have none of it.

“For scholarly topics – certainly! But everyone must have an opinion on a topic as fundamental as the origin of wizardkind.”

Victoria fought the urge to rub her temples.

“And an opinion it will remain, unless everyone became a scholar. I read a letter in the _Evening Prophet_ the other day where, if you can believe it, someone argued …”

Once more diverted, but now it became exhausting. Aside from talking, Victoria had to constantly think two steps ahead, consider not only how she was going to respond, but also how everyone else _might_ respond, in order to keep the conversation off of undesirable tangents leading back to the argument over Voldemort that both Madam Marchbanks and Mrs Parkinson seemed perfectly inclined to have with her. Mrs Malfoy still made no effort to help, and Mrs Whitehorn was simply dull.

She felt herself slipping, and was yet saved by the boorish Mrs Whitehorn, who was getting bored and rose to leave, not even realising the atmosphere in the drawing room.

“It has been a pleasure, Narcissa, but time is catching on. Devlin sends his regards, and of course you are invited to the Vasa race on New Year. Just sent me notice if you should like to come.” And, with a distracted look at Victoria, “You as well.”

After Mrs Whitehorn had risen, the others could not stay behind, and soon enough, Mrs Malfoy had accompanied them out of the room. When they were gone, Victoria slumped onto the sofa. She felt as exhausted as having performed transfigurations for an hour.

When Mrs Malfoy returned, she found Victoria on the sofa there, but smiled. “You did well, Victoria.”

Victoria raised a half-hearted glare. “You could’ve warned me.”

“And have you skimp on your delightful on-the-feet thinking? Certainly not.”

Victoria blew a strand of raven hair out of her face, thinking, before she pushed herself up resolutely.

“May I ask you some questions, Mrs Malfoy?”

There was a considering look, and perhaps a hint of approval.

“You may.”

“I presume this was a formal visit, one of those dictated by protocol, which you and the other observe, regardless of particular closeness.”

“It was.”

Victoria exhaled, then took a determined breath.

“Tell me everything I did wrong.”

Mrs Malfoy’s laughter washed over her.

“Everything and nothing, dear. It’s entirely irrelevant.”

“There must’ve been something I should’ve done, and didn’t, or vice versa,” Victoria insisted. “Right at the beginning, for instance. What was the proper way to react after your introduction?”

“You might have gone to each one of them, expressed your deference in turns, then wait for me to offer you a seat. Would you have done it, if you had known?”

“No.”

“See? I thought not. So what does protocol matter, really? Here’s a secret, Victoria. Protocol is great for never offending anyone. Everything is regulated – never inconvenience your host by staying longer than half an hour, never venture into any but the most shallow, superficial topics to talk about, rules on robes, manners, whatever you like – I shall loan you an entire book just about making calls, if you wish. And you may learn it by heart, and follow every rule to the letter; you will never go wrong, and never get anywhere with it either. If you need to create an impression different to the one you currently occupy in people’s minds, eventually, it becomes patently useless, because the entire premise is not to change perceptions. It was very necessary for you to ignore some of the rules.”

“So which impression did they have, and which did I leave them with?”

Mrs Malfoy settled comfortably next to her on the sofa, apparently having reached the topic she really wanted to talk about.

“And now, Victoria, we enter the fascinating world of nuances, intentions, reactions, assumptions and implications. Far more interesting than any old protocol, I should think. Before I announced you, you were the sum of all stereotypes that make up the Girl-Who-Lived. But then I introduced you, so you became _my_ girl … except that you then immediately asserted yourself as you.”

“They seemed to like the former a great deal better than either of the latter,” Victoria said, rather annoyed.

Mrs Malfoy hummed in agreement.

“I’m afraid that at that point you had already both Hyacintha and Griselda quite vexed, indeed. Afterwards, you kept the topic off of the Dark Lord with all the dexterity of a true Slytherin. I haven’t seen either of the witches so thoroughly frustrated in their efforts to pin someone down for a long time, so it’s now safe to say you have created lasting impressions. Hyacintha won’t be able to get over the fact that the Girl-Who-Lived is everything she herself values, and dislike you for it, as will Griselda, as a matter of fact – if for the exactly opposite reason. So in short, my dear, you managed to get the absolutely worst of both worlds.”

“Great.” Victoria stared gloomily at the wall. But Mrs Malfoy sounded very satisfied. The young witch started to realise what was going on.

“There was no way I was _ever_ going to pass, was there? Regardless of anything I might do, whichever way I would behave, me being me there was only this one outcome.”

The older witch didn’t respond.

“The only way to win is not to play,” Victoria muttered, before she stared at Mrs Malfoy again. “And yet –”

“Precisely. An interesting quandary, don’t you think? And I very much agree with your solution.”

“Which is?”

And now there a full on smile. “Why, Victoria, if you have realised you must play, and you can’t win, then at least make the game one for the ages. And that it was, oh my. Be sure they will tell all their friends. You ought to receive plenty of invites from here on, Mrs Whitehorn already offered you one – if you wish to pursue this path.”

And that was the question, wasn’t it, thought Victoria. She really had no idea yet of what she wanted her life to be like, and, to be entirely truthful, did not feel as if she had to make any sort of decision yet, either. She was only just a teenager! But she didn’t say that. Instead, she asked: “Would I ever pass?”

“Would you be terribly surprised that I must have heard Griselda’s opinion on Quince and Waffling a hundred times?”

“I don’t think so, no. But –”

“Come now, Victoria. You are smarter than to ask what you just intended to. Try it for yourself, and I ask the question. You meant to ask why, then, I suffer the boring Mrs Whitehorn, and Griselda’s grousing, and what does this have to do with what you asked. Your turn now – what would I have answered?”

“You will consider it advantageous to yourself, to cultivate such acquaintances; the talking is done for the sake of it … and by engaging me, they already had accepted me as part of them.” She said it the way it came to her, suddenly quite clear and obvious. Feeling cheeky, she added, “Though if the conversation itself is the point – so you might as well have let me speak just now.”

“Indeed. Among acquaintances of a certain status. You certainly don’t need to suffer those below you.”

The words hit her like a whip, and for all her self-control, she could not suppress the fire flaring in her eyes. Mrs Malfoy regarded it with an impassive look, but perhaps there was a hint of triumph in all this cornflower blue.

“So, however much they dislike you, they disliked you _within their rules_, by which you then played as well. _Anything_ you might have done would lead to this, except for _nothing_ – you had to play. What I showed you today, then, was your life, should you chose to walk this path. Caring for a house, for a name, for a legacy; leisure, calls, dinners, balls. Acceptance that you will have to fight for, in countless, untold variations of such drawing rooms, with Griseldas on one side, and Hyacinthas on the other. And you will do it, because the very fact that one such drawing room is yours binds you to the others, as sure as theirs bind them to you.”

Victoria was silent for a long time. Mrs Malfoy didn’t disturb her peace, picking up some sort of doily, which she continued to charm to fit the dining room table cloth.

“I’m miles from a drawing room,” Victoria said, finally. “And in any event I’m not sure if I should desire one.”

“Miles – or already stepped inside?” Mrs Malfoy rose. Already at the door, she turned back once more. “You are what you are, but you will be what _you will_. Remember that, Victoria. Always.”


End file.
